Reading the Serialization? That last scene was another that emerged almost fully-formed some time after the seminal so now you are dead dream I had a few years back. Petrouchka speaks from the darkness in the back of the throat, my own worst regrets and with the unholy, unexpurgated perception of depression, which keeps you just as locked out of your own life as her condition. She's the taste you get when you split the inside of your cheek against your teeth.
Do you write? Are you ambushed by your characters' sometimes unsettling ventriloquism? It's fucked up, isn't it?
Do you write? Are you ambushed by your characters' sometimes unsettling ventriloquism? It's fucked up, isn't it?
Anyway- some divine climatic concierge heard my bitching and decided to indulge me last Thursday with a little sip of Spring. I did this hasty collage in its honour. I call it viral blossom in my head because that's what Spring reminds me of- crazy cell division, luminous revelation, destruction, consumption, novel expression and enthusiastic disorder. The stuff going on in this tree is basically the same as the influenza blooming in your chestal area or the vessels flushing in your nether regions at the thought of anything handy with a pulse that special someone(s).
I purchased Spanish Bluebells for the garden. They're supposed to be invasive but I've always enjoyed impressive volunteers.
Amid all this effusion I was reading something somewhere about the slow demise of online comments and as you might know that's been my policy virtually from day one on TBO. Which is something I've regretted, on and off, since I'd really like to A- know what all the other freaks are thinking and B- well, interact upon occasion like a fucking normal person. The big-eyed, pudgy-deerpark-doe-like part of me would certainly like to lick your hands. I get more visits now than I ever, ever expected despite my retarded, perverted refusal to self-promote or social-mediate. Our estrangement is a matter of great regret to me and I press my tits against the screen more often that you know/your educated guess is fairly accurate.
But then the other bit of my brain smacks the troll food out of my hand and reminds me of the pointless shitstorms of utter grossness on the few sites I enjoy that still allow comments. It goes on to remind me about all the things I go without so I don't have to give too many fucks about externals i.e. money, free shit, invitations to places with free shit, slutty randoms- the list goes on, and I really don't lose sleep over depriving fuckwad shut-ins of their only chance to be noticed at everyone else's expense.
It's hard enough out there for a weirdo. Moderation is an option but we all know you can't unsee some shit. Or roll back the emotional impact of abuse, or even just the smelly juggernaut of popular opinion once it's hit you in the face. Far larger sites than this one are tiring of devoting precious resources to fending off anonymous twats and that supports my initial, instinctive position. If you enjoy my shit there's a good chance you already have a fair amount of unblushing iron in your soul, but the thought of someone finding themselves the target of abuse here really bites my fucking nuts.
I purchased Spanish Bluebells for the garden. They're supposed to be invasive but I've always enjoyed impressive volunteers.
Amid all this effusion I was reading something somewhere about the slow demise of online comments and as you might know that's been my policy virtually from day one on TBO. Which is something I've regretted, on and off, since I'd really like to A- know what all the other freaks are thinking and B- well, interact upon occasion like a fucking normal person. The big-eyed, pudgy-deerpark-doe-like part of me would certainly like to lick your hands. I get more visits now than I ever, ever expected despite my retarded, perverted refusal to self-promote or social-mediate. Our estrangement is a matter of great regret to me and I press my tits against the screen more often that you know/your educated guess is fairly accurate.
But then the other bit of my brain smacks the troll food out of my hand and reminds me of the pointless shitstorms of utter grossness on the few sites I enjoy that still allow comments. It goes on to remind me about all the things I go without so I don't have to give too many fucks about externals i.e. money, free shit, invitations to places with free shit, slutty randoms- the list goes on, and I really don't lose sleep over depriving fuckwad shut-ins of their only chance to be noticed at everyone else's expense.
It's hard enough out there for a weirdo. Moderation is an option but we all know you can't unsee some shit. Or roll back the emotional impact of abuse, or even just the smelly juggernaut of popular opinion once it's hit you in the face. Far larger sites than this one are tiring of devoting precious resources to fending off anonymous twats and that supports my initial, instinctive position. If you enjoy my shit there's a good chance you already have a fair amount of unblushing iron in your soul, but the thought of someone finding themselves the target of abuse here really bites my fucking nuts.
There's also the nature of your readership and it's my guess that a lot of my regular punters are self-contained introspectives who enjoy a bit of bloody peace and quiet. Don't we all? The opportunity to independently peruse and consider, enjoy or revile without the drone of other people's bullshit impinging like a stranger's penis squeaking against your side window is fucking important. All of these anonymous cakehole emissions are polluting our intellectual privacy. No Comments = you + the sound of your own brain thunking thoughts. I wish mine would. I'm such a vacant, aggressive nose picker at the moment.
So enjoy the sound of silence. Also, and I may have said this before, but let me reiterate; the Contact portal is just as futuristic as it sounds and will definitely whisk your loaded remarks, submissive gestures, naive generosity, artistic unsolicited nudes, gay for pay shit and best kohl for the fucking waterline suggestions to my doorstep. We really do welcome whatever you have to say as long as it's flattering and magical.
Elsewhere in depraved old person news, Slash and Axl are BFFs again. Totally would've them both way back when (i.e. not now) because generous with my favours and the future has always been just a mute and pinkish blur to me. And now I'm going to stop procrastinating and read The Dirt even though I always fucking hated Motley Crue (deliberately witholds retarded umlauts).
Elsewhere in depraved old person news, Slash and Axl are BFFs again. Totally would've them both way back when (i.e. not now) because generous with my favours and the future has always been just a mute and pinkish blur to me. And now I'm going to stop procrastinating and read The Dirt even though I always fucking hated Motley Crue (deliberately witholds retarded umlauts).
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